Imaginary Heart
by ShadesofImagination
Summary: Cloud recites a tale to a 15 year old Sephiroth of a man with dreams far out of his reach and wings that couldn't stand up to the light of the sun. Semi-AU. One shot. Hints of Time-Travel, Second Chance Scenario and possible future Seph/Cloud. Gift fic.


**Imaginary Heart**

. . . .

Around him, the whitewashed walls were blank as usual, the sterile bite of cleaner only magnified by the plain setting. His footsteps echoed softly, a contrast to the sharp click of the purposeful steps beside him. There was nothing but that sound to distract his mind from the fresh memories of cold needles and steel bonds tightening around his wrists. Still, he'd grown used to standing straight, keeping any emotions to himself until he was safely back in the small room he called home.

The day had been long but, if nothing else, his thrashing had finally ceased, proving that his control was getting better and better by the day. The Professor would be pleased he'd managed to rid himself of such human faults and one more expense the company laid at his feet would be gone.

The thought alone made him want to laugh. For being so distinctly different, conditioned to be the ideal weapon, he was as human as anyone else. Humans were, by nature, adaptable creatures and, just like the rest of them, he had adapted to do what needed to be done. In this case, creating the mask he was slowly becoming known for.

Before him, the door to his room came into a view and he swallowed a sigh of relief. A gloved hand reached out as they neared, pushing it open and he stepped forward silently. It shut with a snap behind him, the lock clicking into place with a finality he'd grown used to. The guards never spoke, never acknowledged him beyond a cursory glance and, though they changed frequently, he had yet to actually speak to once since he'd learned to walk on his own.

Even at the age of fifteen they still trapped him in a fancy cage- a monster they set loose only for war but feared in captivity.

Shaking his head, he made his way over to the small bed and flopped down, sighing. At his sides, his hands fisted into the sheets and he took a calming breath, eyes closing. It wouldn't do to tear them again. The chance of finding a needle and thread were slim to none and as the shaking slowly subsided, he had to wonder about his earlier self-praise. Perhaps his control wasn't as good as he'd thought it was.

"You look tense. Bad day?"

Sephiroth felt his lips twitch just slightly. The soft voice was familiar, gentle in an almost neutral way that he'd grown fond of. "Mm… You could say that," he mumbled, sitting up. His eyes opened and, though he tried, he couldn't keep his smile completely at bay. "How was your day?"

From the other side of the room, Cloud pushed off the wall and wandered forward, giving a small shrug in answer. "The usual."

Nodding, Sephiroth moved to make a space for the man. Even if Cloud wouldn't sit, he still offered. The ritual had come about slowly but now it was routine, comfortable. His hands shook less and he leaned back to sit against the wall. Drawing his legs up, he pulled off his boots and tossed them haphazardly off the edge bed. As usual, Cloud bent to retrieve them, settling them neatly off to the side.

"You're so neat."

"I'm pretty sure we've been over this."

"Hmm." His smile was growing but he didn't mind. Let Hojo review the film once more. He didn't care what the man did, as long as he got this time and there was no one there to stop Cloud. No one else could see him and no matter how many times they made Sephiroth move rooms or switched floors, Cloud always followed. Cloud called himself imaginary but, silently, Sephiroth called him an angel.

"You should stop that."

Blinking, his eyes darted to the man, thoughts trailing off. "Stop what?"

A blond eyebrow arched, an amused smirk toying at the man's lips. "Sitting there with such an idiotic grin on your face."

"Tch." Glancing away, Sephiroth shrugged. "What more can they do? Fix me? I'm hardly broken."

"Not to him."

"Does it matter?" His words felt sharp and he glanced back, uncaring. Cloud's expression softened, as he knew it would but he couldn't bring himself to say much more. The words already hung in the air between them; an old argument the two of them agreed should be laid to rest. Yet, it inevitably came back up and, just as quickly, it died with a swift topic change. It was his turn to do the honors and he shifted forward, beckoning Cloud to come closer. "Can I see them again?" he asked quietly.

"Sephiroth."

"Please."

Silence filled the room and Sephiroth mentally counted down the seconds until Cloud caved. A sigh would escape him… his eyes would dart around the room, looking for a last excuse to hold onto and, when he found nothing there would be a moment of hesitation. Cloud would step forward, hands raised to tug off the knit top he wore and that would be the end of the protests, as subtle as they might have been.

_...3...2..-_

The soft sigh he'd grown accustomed to disturbed the quiet and the shifting of buckles soon followed. Not bothering to hide a smug smile, Sephiroth slid to the edge of the bed, ignoring Cloud's muttering. The shirt was discarded and the man settled on the floor, back facing him.

Reaching out, Sephiroth trailed a fingertip over the thin white lines that cut from the top of Cloud's shoulder blades to the middle back before drifting to a single line that marred the skin near the center of the left side. He knew that, were Cloud to turn around, he'd find a matching line on his chest. The one time he'd asked about it, Cloud had simply shaken his head. Silent as the rest of the night had been, Sephiroth understood that the topic should be left alone even if his curiosity nagged at him. …who had hurt Cloud? Who could have left such a permanent mark on him?

Brushing the thoughts aside, he watched quietly as the muscles shifted, skin pulling taught before the bones beneath pushed just enough and it split along the lines; a well-worn seam. Long feathers slid free, fanning out as joints popped and muscles that had been kept tight beneath the surface uncoiled.

He waited patiently as Cloud stretched, rolling his shoulders in a practiced motion, extending the wings to their full span. When a tiny nod came, his hands moved forward once more, ghosting over the slight tinting of pink at the base of one wing; the down stained by trace amounts of blood that came with letting them free.

The pads of his fingers brushed the discoloration, smearing it further and he leaned forward, taking the chance at getting closer. The wings themselves were beautiful on their own, but that imperfection on something so unique brought with it the reminder that, oftentimes, even the most pure things came with a dose of pain and he found that only added to the beauty. His odd upbringing had taught him many lessons but this one had struck a chord close to his heart. Of course, it had only done so after meeting Cloud, but he appreciated the gift the knowledge had given him nonetheless.

Nothing came without sacrifice.

As his hands worked up, along the thin bones, petting across the heavier feathers, Cloud's head tipped back and he arched an eyebrow once more. "You're doing it again."

Sephiroth rolled his eyes, reaching to shove Cloud's head forward. "Shut up." It might have been a childish response but it never failed to draw a laugh from the older man; something he'd deemed worth a bit of unbecoming behavior long ago. "Why do you hide them?"

He knew the answer even as he asked it and mouthed the words along with him.

"These wings are wax."

"You're not Icarus," Sephiroth muttered, pulling a broken feather from the right side. He set it gently on the bed and set about checking for others. They would all go in a box he kept in the bottom drawer of the desk despite Cloud's protests. "You're not going to melt."

"I already did."

As they fell into a comfortable silence, Sephiroth wondered if this was just as calming for Cloud as it was for him. He would have been inclined to say 'yes'. Cloud's shoulders relaxed, his breathing slowed and, more frequently than not, Sephiroth found him leaning back, resting against his legs. "Tell me again."

"…don't you ever get tired of hearing it?"

Sephiroth could hear the amusement Cloud tried to mask with exasperation and shook his head. "Do you really need to ask?"

"Mm. Probably not." Shifting, Cloud sighed, settling back. In turn, Sephiroth adjusted his legs to accommodate the wings, dropping his knees to give Cloud something to lean against and waited for him to begin. "Long ago, a man named Icarus looked upon the sky… but unlike most of those around him, Icarus didn't see just a blue expanse, just the soft white of the clouds or the light of the sun. He saw freedom."

Smiling, Sephiroth fell into his usual routine, reaching to pet the soft down on the underside of the wings while he listened.

"His father was a craftsman and since he was a young boy, Icarus had helped him build all manner of things. 'This is all you will do, this is all you were meant to be,' his father would tell him. He was proud of his son and hoped that he could be happy. But, Icarus wanted something more and, as the years wore on, he smiled less frequently, becoming easily lost in thought."

There was a slight pause as Cloud reached back, rubbing over a sore spot near the furthest joint on his left wing and Sephiroth reached for it, batting his hand away. "Keep going," he muttered, rubbing gently. They were patching up nicely, no longer the torn, bruised things they had been when they'd first met and, after years of practice, he was getting better at knowing exactly how to fix the aches and pains that plagued them.

Cloud nodded his thanks, looking to give him a small smile before continuing. "...Still, each and every day Icarus rose before the sun lit the sky and labored with his father; building whatever was asked of him. However, in secret, Icarus worked to rid himself of the shackles that tied him to his fate. He fashioned himself a set of wings made from the leftover wax of the candles they used to work by, taking inspiration from the birds he watched through the windows of their cottage.

One morning, when his father awoke he could not find his son. His bed was empty, as was the workshop and worry started to nag at him. When he went outside, he called for Icarus. A hand touched his shoulder and the son he'd raised smiled down at him from the air above. 'Father,' he said, 'Do you see? I have crafted my own freedom. I am meant for more. I am meant for this, the world'... and though the man tried to warn him, Icarus had found a dream and was determined to fulfill it.

The vast expanse of the open sky called to him and no amount of pleading could deter him. That dream was cemented so firmly in his mind that, as the sun drew higher and higher in the sky, Icarus ignored its light, basking solely in the exhilaration his freedom brought him. He flew over the mountains, over the grassy plains, to the shores of the continents and out above the great sea.

It was then that the sun turned to him and held out her hand in question. 'You have outdone yourself, Icarus,' she said, 'But you have displeased your Goddess. Were you not happy with what I gifted to you?'

Icarus told her of the dreams he'd had, how the sky had beckoned him and the light of the sun brought him hope that one day his restless mind and body could find peace. He spoke of the joy he'd found, the things he'd seen, the wonders the world held and how thankful he was to have experienced them.

The Goddess then nodded. 'I will grant you this, Icarus, you have pursued your dreams with an ambition that is so rarely found but only the reckless would fly so close to the sun with wings made of wax. You were blinded by your desires, you ignored the advice of those that loved you and now, your father will never gaze upon the son he cared for so deeply. You were selfish and now, your freedom is slipping through your fingers just as the wax of your wings is falling to the sea. May Leviathan grant you sanctuary where the heavens will not.'

And then, Icarus was falling. His wings had been stripped from him and the wind whipped around him. The lands he'd flown over were nowhere to be seen and the waters rose to swallow him. Yet, when Leviathan came to bind his soul to the sea, Icarus had one smile left—just for him. He would have gladly done it all again."

Cloud's words trailed off and, smiling, Sephiroth ran his hands down the outer edges of his wings in thanks. A shiver made him pull them tighter and Cloud glanced back, frowning. "What?" he asked, pulling his hands away from the feathers. "Just saying thank you."

"Such a brat," Cloud muttered, moving to stand.

The wings were pulled back in and Sephiroth stood, taking the small pile of feathers to the box. Carefully, he removed it from its usual place and settled them in, arranging each one with care. Though the moment was over and Cloud would fall into the silence that usually surrounded him, Sephiroth could relax now.

At the end of the day, the needles, the tests, even the blood didn't matter. This one man made all of that disappear. In a world where he was expected to been perfection, created to be a monster; cold and without a care, this… imaginary friend would always ground him and, even if Cloud didn't know it, hold the heart he had helped craft from what little wax was left in his life. After all, what better place to keep it than with an angel who dared fly to close to the sun?

**. . . .**

**Wrote this for an author I look up to. Someday, when I get the guts to, I might send it to them. Thanks for reading and sticking with me, you guys. **


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